Author: kaitpack

I roll down my window to open the gate into the parking lot underneath the high-rise where I work. My speakers blast country music. I don’t have time to adjust the sound before a stranger walks past my car. My neck feels warm with embarrassment. There goes my professional image.

Hi, my name is Kate, and I’m a people-pleaser.

On Sunday, I listen as he tells us how bitterness is not a weapon we wield, it’s a suicidal poison.

I have a similar strain of the virus. I am well-acquainted with the sin of people-pleasing. It’s an old companion of mine.

And it’s going to kill me.

Starting with that deadly misconstruction that I’m behind the wheel as long as people like me.

It’s black-ice thinking. The way my mind spins out of control as I analyze Their thoughts and make decisions based on Their philosophies. The way I try to position the camera, so They see me in the best light.

By trying to control my appearance, I have put the power in Their hands, signed over control to my thoughts, my words, my actions.

I’ve given Them my artillery, taken off my armour and raised my hands in air.

Strangers of my Soul own me.

I have it backwards like most things.

The Maker of my Soul provides an escape.

That blessed invitation to please a more forgiving Master. To stop living for other people.To wave my flag in surrender to Him. To sign over control to my thoughts, my words, my actions.

To embrace freedom.

“With eyes wide open to the mercies of God, I beg you, my brothers, as an act of intelligent worship, to give him your bodies, as a living sacrifice, consecrated to him and acceptable by him. Don’t let the world around you squeeze you into its own mould, but let God re-mould your minds from within, so that you may prove in practice that the plan of God for you is good, meets all his demands and moves towards the goal of true maturity.” Romans 12:1-2

I listen to him as he speaks from the front of the church, his voice almost hoarse with passion. Pursue the Kingdom first, he says. Like those people receiving death threats for Christ-centered living.

I’m desperate to know my place in the world, for the Kingdom. A not-quite-quarter-life crisis. I’ll take the death threats, Lord. I’ll go anywhere. (Or so I think.)

The church clears and I walk slowly to the front and ask her to pray for me. The strength of her wrinkled hands surprises me as she folds them into mine and I wonder if the Holy Spirit is teleprompting her. “You want to be obedient, but you want to know exactly what that means for you,” she looks me in the eyes.

I nod, remembering a conversation I’d had weeks ago. “Everyone talks about their ambitions,” she had said to me as we watched the light bounce across the ripples on the lake. “All I want is a quiet life, to be involved in the church.”

The lady with the wrinkled hands prays for my zealous conviction to be transformed into clear direction.

And I’m remembering how the girl at the lake had said she wanted a quiet life. To be a member of the body. A low-profile servant. Now that’s ambitious.  

I’m foolish, zealous without discipline. I think I’m willing to be burned at the stake when I’m not willing to turn off the snooze button and meet the morning with prayer.  

The lady’s wrinkled hands squeeze mine before letting go. And I wonder how she became insightful, where she learned to pray.

There must have been many many mundane moments in many many ordinary days where she chose to take the offensive against laziness and storm the towers of selfishness.

She must have been ambitious. She must have been brave.

“Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.” 1 Thessalonians 4:12

She puts her hand on my arm and asks me how they can pray for me.

I’ve just met them. Just learned her and her daughter’s names right there on a Wednesday night a few rows from the front of the church.

She asks me for a prayer request.

I try to think fast. What is the greatest burden on my heart? It’s like a perfect winter blizzard–the way the summer memories spin. I sift through which phone call was the most painful, which conversation the most difficult, which word caused the most grief.

“I just feel lost,” I tell her. She has kind eyes.

It’s a perfect winter blizzard.

And she tells me later how she lost her husband ten years ago. It’s still hard.

It’s still hard.

“But,” she pauses, “I wonder. Could we could just thank God? He has given me a passion for His Word in my grief.”

She prays Scripture like it’s a rich dessert, savouring every word. She prays with conviction.

And I drive home on a Wednesday night, singing in the darkness of my car.

“For the word of the Lord is right and true; he is faithful in all he does.” Psalm 33:4

(Re-posting: Life has been hard lately, but this stays true. Looking to Christ is the answer.)

On Sunday morning, we stand in church.

Everyone sings:

Ruin my life

The plans that I’ve made…

Beside me, she joins them.

I don’t sing. I wring my hands. What if. What if. What if.

On Monday night, she gets the e-mail that just might ruin her life. Everything that she has woven together is pulled out loop by loop, strand by strand. We stand around her and pray for results, for miracles. But she prays for God’s glory.

Somehow, we end up with hands and faces on the hardwood floor of the kitchen. No words left. Just a posture of worship. I lift my palms in surrender. Because I trust Him. Like she trusts Him. Even now.

“Enoch walked faithfully with God” (Gen. 5:24).

But there are weeks when I feel like it would be easier to run ahead of God. To let go of His hand and to forge ahead on my own, to catch the view on the other side of the hill, to try to find clarity before the light fades.

Why Lord, why is it taking so long to get to the other side? Will we have to walk through the night?

There are weeks when walking with God seems like stepping into pain. It seems more like the tear-filled prayers in the middle of the night and the balled-up Kleenexes covering the living room floor.

It seems. It seems.

And then she writes the reference of Psalm 23 with a big black magic marker on piece of paper ripped out of a notebook. And I read it to her aloud as my heart aches. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me…You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies…Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

And we both start giggling because the reality of His promises puts our pain in perspective. We laugh and laugh because His promises are so big, it’s hilarious. And yet, they’re true.

I’d rather hold His hand in the darkness than live alone in the light. I’d rather know pain in His embrace than know every earthly pleasure apart from His love.

In the middle of the work day, I hold back the tears and ask for a moment of grace. Only a moment. And then I’ll ask for one more moment after that. And after that.

Step by step. As Joy and Pain go hand-in-hand, I can hardly tell the two apart.

“Indeed, none who wait for you shall be put to shame” (Psalm 25:3).

He looks across the table at us, looks us right in the eyes and tells us how it’s changed his life.

Dedicating himself to the Spirit before the birds start singing, before the rest of the world is even awake. He takes the Word of God in hand and says something like this, “Lord, I believe this book. Every word. And I give myself to you to use.”

It’s scandalous. How he whispers this every morning in the middle of a world that says the Words of the Book are antiquated and outdated. He dares to do this in a world where even us Christians have difficulty accepting the Words if they go against our sensitive ears.

Even as he’s telling us, I’m wondering if I have the courage to make such a declaration in the quiet of my bedroom, in the wee hours of the morning. “I believe the Book.”

And I’d go to work and work like I believe the Book. And I’d have lunch with my friends and talk like I believe the Book. I’d go to parties and socialize like I believe the Book.

It’s terrifying because sometimes I act like I know better than the Scripture. I downplay the Words that are difficult. The issues of obedience, sacrifice, servant-hood. None of those make sense in a world of self-glorification. I find myself getting far too close to the words the Serpent said in the Garden. Did God really mean that?

Yes, yes He did mean it. He still means it today.

So, why does the man look at us across the table and look us right in the eyes to tell us all this? Because it’s changed his life.

“Is not my word like fire, declares the Lord, and like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces?” Jeremiah 23:29

The words about Sin are accompanied by the words about Redemption. And the words about Obedience are accompanied by the words about Great Reward. And Death is replaced with Resurrection.

Because the Book does not provide the option for a bits ‘n pieces approach. It’s all or nothing.

And that’s what he’s telling us across the table, eyes sparkling. The Spirit takes his whole life, just takes over.

And that’s when life starts to get really good.

I slip into a back row of chairs. Late to church again.

The old familiar words from Spafford grip my heart immediately. When peace like a river attendeth my way.

I look around the room. The hundreds of hands lifted, voices raised, heads bent, hearts softened. And I think of the way he talks about church, the value he gives to it. This meeting together–how it’s worth pursuing.

But sometimes, for me, church is just an option. An option I hurriedly choose after waking up late.

An option inspired by Sunday morning tradition.

I’m too good for church, I think. I can serve God without attending it.

I talk about church like it’s an event.

Like it’s a checklist duty.

But standing in a back row on a Sunday morning, I realize there is something greater at work.

The whole energetic host of people swaying together to a century-old hymn. The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend.

And it’s not just five-hundred people in a room. It’s the echo of thousands of saints from ages past. It’s the anthem for thousands of future followers.  It’s the voice of the Church being heard in the middle of Oakville, in Canada, the world, universe. Across the heavens.

It’s a declaration to the spiritual forces of darkness that our voice cannot be drowned out. After a devastating, grief-filled week. After a heart-breaking political decision. After a month of neglecting the Word. We’re back. And we’re stronger than ever.

And I’m not just attending church.

I’m joining the song. I’m joining in surrender. I’m putting my voice in with the rest of the saints.

Because…

It is well with our souls.

“And they devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. And awe came upon every soul, and many wonders and signs were being done through the apostles. And all who believed were together and had all things in common.” Acts 2:42-44

It’s the middle of May in northern Ontario. We’re battling wind and waves before our canoe betrays us entirely.

The water is so cold, it burns.

And it’s a race against the clock to get out of the lake and get warm. “Help us, Lord,” I say.

Tipping moments.

Is that what it takes to launch us over the edge of indifference and passivity?

A brutal awakening of the senses?

Later, on a Saturday, we sit across from him as he picks away at his sesame seed cake. I gulp down my freshly-pressed coffee like it’s going to save my life.

And he mentions how he’s waiting. He’s waiting for eternity to be imminent before dealing with decisions of the soul.

And when I’m drying off from the frigid lake and shivering uncontrollably under five layers of blankets, I realize I do the same thing.

I wait. I wait for the devouring eyes of eternity. I wait for the moment it’s about to pounce on me before I realize that I want a greater treasure-store in heaven.

My soul is secure. But where is my treasure?

I’ve invested all my savings plans in the pleasures of the flesh, in the snooze button, in the sufficient bank account, in the approving eyes of my co-workers.

Until I reach the tipping point.

In the middle of a lake. Immersed in frigid waters. There is nothing left except.

“Help us, Lord.”

But I don’t want God to be my last breath. Or my dying wish.

I want Him to be my morning song. And my First Thought.

And tipping points can put you right-side-up again. If you don’t throw it in the category of coincidence.

“Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.” Psalm 143:8

I remember the first time I was stung by a nest of mud wasps on a creek bank somewhere near the west coast of Canada. Like being pricked with countless sharp needles on my face, neck, arms. Then, throbbing, burning underneath my skin. 

And that’s how his words felt.

Later, we talk in the car and she mentions his name, a subtle comment about his faults. I want her approval, a closer connection. So, I monologue his faults and we laugh together in agreement.

I get her on my side.

Isn’t that the instinct of war? And human hearts.

But I toss a lure to someone else, something about his hurtful words. But it’s someone who’s wiser than both of us and he doesn’t bite the line.

And it’s then I realize that he is giving me permission. Permission to forgive. Permission to leave resentment in the grave.

I start to notice it with others, how some people give you space to love. To forgive. How there’s no pressure to bond over someone else’s mistakes.

It’s a taste of the presence of Christ.

Because no one in their right mind would sit down to coffee with Jesus and whisper to him all the things they hate about their parents—as if the scars in His hands didn’t exist.

I remember how she was a sweet taste for her daughter when she never spoke one unkind word against her abusive husband. A chance for her daughter to move forward.

Because bitterness can sting more than offense. And its taste is never sweet.

Oh, to have a presence like Christ. A presence that gives others the permission to forgive. To love.

To loosen the burden of bitterness.

 

Good Friday. The day that doesn’t make sense.

Like her urgent phone call the week before to pray for life, for the rhythm of a pulse.

Or her words across the dinner table over the steady hum of an oxygen tank, as the rays of the evening sun filtered through the big glass door. “I don’t know what I would do without faith in this season.”

All week I have struggled with words, because I can barely even grasp the edges of His ways.

And Good Friday is covered with the shadow of death.

Like two thousand years ago when darkness was winning.

Like this week when cancer was winning and kidneys were failing.

And funerals were happening. And the phone call was filled with silence because words disintegrate in the midst of grief.

And the valley, the shadow–it’s twofold. Because the valley implies the mountain peak. And the shadow implies the light.

And Good Friday implies Sunday. And the empty tomb implies a risen Saviour.

And if death doesn’t make sense to us, neither does eternal life. Neither does the death of a perfect man.

It’s simple: His propitiation for our sins. But redemption, it’s mind-blowing.

Because the gospel compares to no other narrative. It’s a truth like no other. It has nothing to do with us. We can’t bring it down to our level, box it up, and explain it in bullet points.

It’s simple, but it doesn’t make any sense.

Death is hard to understand. But the love of God–that’s harder. The salvation of mankind–it’s absurd, it’s ridiculous, it’s unfathomable.

And thanks be to God, it’s true.

And thanks be to God, Sunday’s coming.

And thanks be to God, one day the shadow will be gone for good.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade.” 1 Peter 1:3-4